2022-05-04T14:39:03-07:00May 26th, 2013|Nature|

Something a widow once told me about rain

It’s the time of year
when even by Canadian standards
our patience is wearing thin.

We have braced ourselves
against the weather for so long,
we have earned the looseness of heat

wide-open doors,
blackberries staining our buckets,
warm skin fed
into the mouth of the ocean.

But the rain insists,
drowning our gardens in mud.

Just today I turned our heat back up
and read my book with my legs
pressed into the baseboard

but then I remembered
something a widow once told me
about rain,

how when the surviving half
of a couple dies,
they are reunited in the sky
where they dance like mad
on the clouds
poking holes with their heels
until the rain leaks out

and I went outside,
my face rippled and cold,
looking up
trying not to blink
in case I might catch a glimpse
of that drunk wet joy.

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